


Time Takes Time, You Know

by thalialunacy



Series: The Man Can Wear a Watch [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one with Karl wearing a watch, and Chris writing poetry about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Takes Time, You Know

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was supposed to be commentfic, a drabble, for [this entry](http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/219076.html). Then it grew.
> 
>  **Summary** : Chris notices Karl wears [manly watches](http://pics.livejournal.com/thalialunacy/pic/0038k9pe). Poetry happens. Zach finds it. Shenanigans ensue.  
>  **Disclaimer** : Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Please, please don't sue me. And don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.

It’s kind of random, the when of the noticing. They’re at an early read-through, a bunch of boys and two hot chicks sitting around a blank white table with meticulously bundled white widgets of top-secret script in front of them. Chris feels restless, like he always does at this stage, like any second they’re gonna say ‘Just kidding, we wrote Kirk out of this movie because you sucked so much in the one before,’ and in an attempt to contain the mania, his pen suffers severe deformations and he’s taken stock of everyone’s wardrobe before they’re past page three.

Backstory, it’s a killer.

His eyes skitter across Karl, then swing back. And stick. It’s spring in LA and one would think that would mean a t-shirt but no, Karl has a button-up on, pressed and dressed like anybody here gives a damn, like everybody here hasn’t seen him dressed to the nines and passed out from drunken exhaustion and all states in between.

Karl reaches up to scratch at his forehead, and Chris watches as one of Karl’s cuffs slides back from his wrist and his incredibly expensive, incredibly manly watch is revealed. On other people, on most people, it would be gaudy, it would be ostentatious, and on a guy like Karl, who is really neither of those things, one would think it would be out of place.

But somehow… somehow, Chris muses as he absently folds and refolds the corner of the page they’re reading through, Karl Urban can wear the _shit_ out of a watch.

Then he sees Karl raising an eyebrow at him, and he slides back into the scene, done contemplating anybody’s wrists.

But after that, it’s like he can’t not notice. Karl’s watch’s life becomes a bit of a Thing for Chris: the hours of rehearsal where the watch is there, heavy and substantial and cozy, making Chris mildly jealous, versus the hours of filming where Karl’s wrist is bared for McCoy, making Chris mildly hard.

There’s a space there, a question mark, and for the first time in a long time, at least with a man, Chris wants to fill it.

What he fills it with, though, much to Chris’s chagrin—and that word is so appropriate because the last four letters? Yeah, he’s doing that, too—is a lovesong. He spends minutes, hours, weeks, composing something in his head, bits and pieces whenever it strikes him. He doesn’t even put it in a notebook, because he _knows_ Zach steals that shit and fuck but does he not need that kind of blackmail. (You’d think Chris would have the good shit on Zach, Zach being the patchouli-est closet case in Hollywood, but Chris is not that guy, so... He watches his back.)

And when he turns it around, runs through it again one morning at about three am when they’ve been shooting since two days ago, he realizes he’s composed quite the epic chanson d’amour. And he can’t be bothered to do much more than grin lopsidedly about it, and Karl-McCoy gives him this Look and the take is ruined by Chris’s shout of laughter.

“What was that all about, Princess?” Zach asks under his breath during the re-set.

Chris ducks his head, too tired and keyed up and in love or some shit. “Did you ever notice that Karl can _wear_ a _watch_?”

Zach merely purses his lips. “It is my understanding that the Constitution of the United States allows everybody the freedom to wear a timepiece.”

“Oh fuck, you must be tired to be whipping out the _Guys & Dolls_ quotes.” Zach looks not at all guilty and Chris resists the urge to cross himself in apology to Brando’s ghost.

He persists, though, because, well, Zach _asked_ , and then clearly missed the italics. He steps on the words like lead, not editing the curl of his own lips. “Karl. Can _wear_. A _watch_.”

Zach tilts his chin to the side, clearly still thinking Chris is ridiculous and slightly perplexing, in an annoying little-brother sort of way. “I fail to see the intrigue.”

Chris just shakes his head, tsking. Then he turns from Zach and shrugs expansively. “Rare is the man who can wear time well…”

“Oh my god,” Zach says with a sigh, “somebody kill this bitch before I—“

“Places!”

“…Thank God.”

It’s then that Chris decides okay, that tested the waters of plausible deniability, and the next time he has a moment between just himself and his white t-shirt, he mouths at a pen and scribbles lines into a notebook, filling blank spaces with ink and longing and thanking Whatever that he doesn’t have to make a living on his poetry, because man, it sucks.

He stares down at it, and grins anyway.

\---

He should know better. He really, really should know better.

\---

Zach knows where the notebooks live. Of course he does, one doesn't have to be a super spy to get one over on Chris Pine; the boy thinks he's withdrawn and well-kept but his systems are easily enough discerned, patterns visible through their cloak of monotony.

And once in a while, yes, Zach reads them. Chris is good, is the thing. He puts words together well, in spite of -- or perhaps because of -- how obviously painstaking he finds it.

So one day, near the beginning of filming, he pages through one while Chris is in the john, and Lo and Behold-- _What do we have here?_

Six minutes later, he hears a flush and water running and snaps the notebook shut and back into place.

He wants to keep this one to himself, at least for a while.

But that lasts for about a week, then he just can't resist another peek. And there's _more_ , and oh god Chris must've written the newest one the last time they got stoned, because--

Zach is doubled over laughing into this hand when Chris comes into the room. "What the shit is so funny, you fucking--" His eyes land on the notebook and he pales, then goes red. "--faggot."

He lunges for it, but Zach spins away. "Uh-uuuh," he sing-songs.

"I fucking hate you," Chris grunts at him as he tries again.

Zach finally gives it back to him. Chris only has so many places to hide it, after all. "Sticks and stones and misappropriated anger won't break my bones, Christopher Robin."

Chris puffs up for a moment, the falls back onto the couch with the notebook. "You are one twisted Mother Goose."

"At least I don't write haiku porn."

"It's not porn."

The eyebrow, she goes up.

"Okay, fine," Chris acquiesces. "Soft core." Then he rallies. "But can you fucking blame me? Have you _seen_ the way the guy can wear a watch?" And he heaves this huge disgruntled sound that would sound girly if he hadn't smoked so many cigarettes in his life.

Zach purses his lips, then leans over and smacks him upside the head.

"Hey! What the fuck?"

"What's the number one rule about Hollywood Heteronormality?"

"All bets are off at a Heffner party?"

"Well, that too," Zach allows, "but I meant _don't assume_."

Chris shakes his head. "No shit, Sherlock. But what am I wrongly assuming, here?"

Zach sighs. "Really?"

"Enlighten me."

Zach rolls his eyes to the ceiling, searching for the strength necessary for dealing with oblivious young gentlemen. Then he holds his hand out for the notebook.

Chris narrows his eyes at him for a second, then shrugs and hands it over. Zach leafs through it until he finds the one he's looking for, then he holds it out like it's storytime at the library, gesturing to it with his other hand. "A whole poem that's a thinly veiled forbidden fruit metaphor?"

Chris's eyebrows bunch together, a little threateningly. "And?"

"Oh for the love of-- He's about as forbidden as Disneyland, you idiot."

Chris stares at him for a moment. Zach waits. "You're not trying to say he's-- they're--" He gestures vaguely. "They're not-- You know…"

"Monogamous?"

Chris's nose wrinkles, and for a moment Zach wants to smother him with glitter and rainbows then leave him there, sad and alone and manly.

He resists. Barely.

"I believe that's exactly what I'm trying to say, yes."

Chris's face stays wrinkled, and Zach is suddenly reminded of Tori's little pug when she got disgruntled. "Seriously? You're sure?"

Zach smiles. "I'm sure."

Chris immediately jumps to the erroneous conclusion. "Wait, are you saying you've--"

Zach shakes his head, laughing gently. "Settle down, no, I've never boarded that particular train."

Chris looks mildly relieved. Then he seems to remember what they were talking about. "So you're saying his wife would be just peachy with it if he and I-- " He makes that stupid helpless gesture again.

Zach flips a couple pages in the notebook, then holds it up, clears his throat, and projects most Shakespeareanly. "'Show each other the damp inside caverns of our souls?'" He snaps the notebook shut. "Yes. I believe so."

Chris glares at him some more. "Well, okay, but that still doesn't mean _he_ would."

And the way he firmly shuts down cuts at Zach, because this kid should realize what a gem he is.

Zach's pretty damn sure Karl has.

Apparently they're both just idiots.

So he goes for the direct approach. Often works with Virgos.

He holds out the notebook. "Talk to him. Ask him. See what he says."

Chris snorts. "Are you fucking kidding me?

"Not even remotely. You need to get on that." He points the notebook at Chris threateningly. "And if you don't, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."

Chris raises his hands in mock fear. "Ooo, I'm quaking." He pulls himself off the couch. "Now shut the fuck up and let's get out of here. I'm tired of hearing you talk about shit you don't understand."

Zach closes his eyes. "Right, because _I've_ never wanted a married man before," he mutters, but not loudly enough for Chris's retreating back to actually hear him.

Fucking newbie gays, they're the _worst_.

As is proven over the next few weeks. Zach tries to be patient, he really does, but when Karl's gentle flirting and Chris's freight train-like oblivion continue into the next month, Zachary Quinto has had _enough_.

He sits with a coffee and several cigarettes thinking about it. Mulling over possibilities. A couple days ago when JJ'd been heinously annoying with the tapping-on-the-microphone thing, Zach had been struck by the idea of stealing it at the end of the day and reciting some illicit haiku over the loudspeakers. But that just seems cruel and besides, Zach is not looking to get into trouble with any of the ADs, at least not until late in filming. Next best would be leaving them around for Karl to find, little breadcrumbs of questionable literature, but… that's a lot of work, for one, and very slow, for two. Zach is ready for some action. _Somebody_ needs to get some lovey dovey sex around here, and it sure as shit ain't him, recently, so he decides as he stubs out the third Parliament that a simple smash and grab and plant will do the job, and do the job very nicely indeed.

And okay so in the end there's not much smashing; he has a key to the place. But he wears black, anyways, and half waits for the alarm to go off or for his middle school principal to jump out of the shadows and send him to detention for 'being sneaky,' as she always called it. (Please, that one foray into the girls bathroom was _so_ not for the reason she thought it was.)

But none of the above happens, of course. He hauls the notebook he's affectionately titled 'Misdirected Piteous Overthrows' out of the apartment and locks the door behind him without incident.

\---

Karl falls into his chair in the corner of the flock of chairs in the corner of the soundstage, scrubbing his face with his hands, belatedly realizing the make-up guy's going to positively murder him for it, then reaching down with one hand for his post-its to make a note to buy the little guy those dodgy jalapeno-lime Cheetos he likes--

But instead of his post-its--because yeah he's a geek but he just doesn't do all the gadgets; he likes pencils that you sharpen and post-its that you put on people's noses--there's a notebook. A notebook with a post-it of its own.

_Don't open this until after photography is done for the day.  
And when you do, have liquor handy.  
And your phone._

It's signed 'Your Fairy Godmother'. He recognizes Zach's handwriting, so he resists the temptation to open it immediately. He doesn't trust there not to be exploding ink or a sound chip that plays 'Be My Teddy Bear' at top volume.

Except… that note….

His hand lingers on the cover.

But then he's needed on stage and it's a scene with Chris so he trundles out of this chair. Ten minutes and several crinkle-eyed Pine smiles later, the mysterious notebook is the furthest thing from his mind.

\---

They get let go early (and by 'early' he means 'at a human-being hour of about six') and Chris kinda just wants to go home and pass out to an old movie, but Zach insists they go back to Chris's place and have dinner delivered. They sprawl on the couch and somehow two hours and six beers and three courses of overpriced vegan food later, they're in a heated discussion about the evolution and reclamation of Broad Norfolk-- when the doorbell chimes.

Chris looks at the door, confused. Nobody uses the doorbell, unless it's a delivery person. And no delivery person is coming by at-- He reaches to check his phone for the time--

\--only to find Zach holding it and smirking. The voicemail icon is flashing angrily on it and Chris jumps across the couch but Zach be nimble, Zach be quick because he's halfway to the door, yelling "We don't want no Girl Scout cookies!" at whoever's behind it, and Chris is torn between being mortified and amused.

Until he realizes that Karl Urban is standing on his stoop _holding his notebook_. Then he's just fucking _pissed_.

"Hi, hi guys," Karl starts, his eyes moving from one hipster to the other. "I just-- Chris, I tried to call, but nobody answered, so…" He shrugs. "I can come back, though, or-- whatever--"

"No no," Zach chirps. "This is my cue, so I shall be going." He turns to Chris, who is stuck, standing there in front of his couch, the wheels in his head spinning until they're smoking. "You're welcome."

"You. Bastard."

Zach holds up a hand benevolently. "Really, stop, you can thank me later."

Chris lunges without thinking, just knowing he wants to _kill_ Zach and knowing that maybe if they fight hard enough he'll pass out and then when he wakes up Karl will have disappeared and this will all've been a dream--

But instead he runs into a wall of Karl, who is smiling but Chris tries not to notice. "Let him go," Karl says reasonably. "We'll punish him properly tomorrow."

Zach calls back from halfway out the door: "I don't think Chris does those kind of kinky threesomes, Karl."

Chris lunges again. "Get the fuck out of my house, you traitor!" He struggles against Karl's hold, fucking incensed and humiliated and ready to lie, to say anything to get himself out of this stupid fucking mess.

But Karl won't let him go. Karl is, in fact, pulling him closer, and Chris's body lurches into fifth gear.

Karl's words are low in his ear. "'Pulses hammering madly like some ticking time bomb'?"

"Oh, god," Chris manages. Then he huffs in a breath and shoves away. "Fuck you, okay? You were never supposed to see those, so don't come over here and mock me, because it's just cruel, and I didn't think you were that kind of--"

The last few words are muffled, because Karl has clamped one hand over Chris's mouth, the other hand having somehow dragged Chris back into Karl's personal space. "Pull your head in, would you?"

Chris blinks at him for a while. Then he nods warily. The hand falls away, but only to settle firmly on Chris's hip. Chris's body decided this is awesome, even though there are sirens going off in his head.

"I'm not the kind of guy, it's true." Karl says, his voice low. His eyes are intent on Chris's, his face warm and open and oh god Chris knows he's fucked. "And I'm not here to mock you." And his grip tightens, and it can't be anything but what it seems to be, and Chris feels his gut clench.

"I didn't think you were the kind of guy that cheats on his wife, either."

A corner of Karl's mouth turns up affectionately, but his gaze is still completely serious. "I'm not."

Chris's fist tightens where he didn't realize it was bunched in Karl's shirt. "Explain."

"You broke rule number one, Pine."

"You never gave me reason to assume otherwise, Urban."

"I thought I did. Apparently, according to Zach and, well, obviously by the looks of that notebook, I was being too subtle."

"Subtle."

Karl nods, and Chris swallows roughly as the look in his eyes turns distinctly un-wholesome. Chris's tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, seeking comfort, and Karl lets out a frustrated noise--just before leaning in to press his lips against Chris's solidly.

The hand that was fisted in Karl's shirt clenches more tightly, then relaxes as Karl kisses him again, and again; tongues get involved and Chris is pretty sure his has never been happier.

But. The sirens. There's still one bleeping in his head.

He pulls back, out of breath but determined. "You're serious. You can--Natalie, she's--" So much for eloquence, Jesus Christ, but Karl's _hands_ are sneaking under his _shirt_ and he kind of wants to whimper.

"Do you want to call her? It's--" Karl raises one wrist to check his watch, and Chris swallows on a suddenly dry throat. "Afternoon tomorrow there, she might be available."

Chris shakes his head--doesn't even remember what the fuck he's saying no to, really--and grabs Karl's hand, unable to tear his gaze from that fucking goddamn _watch_.

Karl gives him a Look; Chris can feel it. "What?"

Chris shakes his head a little again, tracing the lines of the cool metal with his fingers, feeling the warm skin below. Then he looks up, meets Karl's eyes. His fingers don't stop moving, though.

His voice is like sandpaper. "I trust you."

"Good." Karl's smile, it lights up the room and shit and Chris inhales sharply before leaning forward to kiss him again. And again. Hey, he doesn't chew all those pens up for nothing, and pretty soon they're both gagging for it, rubbing against each other like fucking teenagers and Chris would be embarrassed but it's hitting Karl that strongly, too, so instead he grins into the kiss.

"Um…"

Well, it's more like a grunt, but the answer is a grunt, too.

"Yeah."

Karl knows where his bedroom is, which is good because Chris can't quite remember at the moment, especially when Karl leads the way so Chris's gaze gets stuck on that _ass_ , which, frankly, could sell jeans, cologne, cars… anything. "Yet you keep using it to sell movies to geeks," he says absently, and Karl stops short just at the threshold of the bedroom.

"Should I ask?" he says, regarding Chris, a soft smile on his face, as Chris approaches him.

Chris wraps his arms around Karl, shoving his hands into his back pockets and shaking his head. "Just appreciating the view."

Karl accepts this, and kisses Chris again. Chris is so okay with this. But he's also okay with Karl eventually pulling them towards the bed, and totally okay with Karl divesting them of clothing like he's getting paid for it-- until Karl reaches for his watch.

"No! No," says Chris hastily, grabbing at Karl and yanking him down onto the bed. He gathers him close, settles their bodies together, fills himself up with the smell and sight and _essence_ of Karl, then leans up to speak into Karl's ear.

"Leave the watch on."

\---

_Epilogue_

The next morning, Chris sits cross-legged on his couch, staring at disbelief at the notebook.

"Zach Quinto is a meddling whore," he declares to his living room. A few minutes later, Karl shuffles out, in just his underoos, and Chris is nearly distracted from his righteous anger. "Sorry for waking you, and good god how do you look hot even first thing in the morning?" He pulls until Karl is curled up sleepily against him, his legs stretched down the length of the couch, then starts in again. "But this is just ludicrous. Please tell me you realized I didn't write most of these."

Karl kind of pushes his forehead into Chris's side. "I'm not completely stupid."

"I know, I know, just-- 'oh kiwi Karl / your hair flip is fabulous / such a sexy dork'?"

"You telling me I'm not a sexy dork?"

It's muffled into Chris's shirt, and Chris's lips curve into a stupid smile as he stares down at Karl's forehead. "Oh, you're totally a sexy dork."

"Case closed, then," Karl says, and shifts, and his big ole paw comes up to cup Chris's head and pulls him down until their lips meet. It's incredibly awkward. It puts a crick in Chris's neck. And he doesn't give a fuck.

Case closed, indeed.

_  
**FIN**   
_

**Author's Note:**

> AND THEN, I ~~drunkenly~~ posted [THIS](http://thalialunacy.livejournal.com/1149002.html), an open poetry challenge, AND YOU ALL RESPONDED WITH FERVOR AND IT WAS AMAZING. And I was squeeing with jazzy_peaches about it, and SHE THEN MADE THIS. YOU GUYS. IT IS SO CUTE AND HILARIOUS. AND YOUR POETRY IS IN IT.
> 
>   
>  **  
>  [ODES D' KARL: A Selection of Works by Chris Pine](http://www.mixbook.com/photo-books/interests/odes-d-karl-4882278)   
>  **   
> 
> 
> I FUCKING LOVE FANDOM. :D:D:D:D


End file.
